Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  “You do know that Winnie is practice-dating, don’t you?” she asks my sisters.

  “Is she now?” Ari asks, the picture of innocence, while Bunny grumbles, “Of course we know. We were there when it happened.”

  Mama bulldozes ahead. “I’m taking it up a notch. You know that adorable scene in How To Lose a Guy in Ten Days, where Kate and Matthew spray lobster juice at each other?” she asks, as though the actors are old friends. “So I’ve decided that Mat and Winnie will drive into the city tonight to go to Lowcountry.”

  “Uncle Pan’s restaurant?” Bunny asks. Uncle Pan is Mama’s brother and my favorite uncle. I also like to think that I’m his particular favorite, since we’re both the babies of our families.

  “You do know that they make out after that lobster scene?” Ari grumbles. “Is that what you want to happen, too?”

  “I can’t believe this.” Bunny knocks over one of the pickled vegetables in her haste to get closer to the screen. “When Uncle Pan opened his restaurant, we begged to go there with our friends. You wouldn’t even consider it.”

  “Oh, stop.” Mama jabs Papa in the ribs, her words applying to both the twins’ complaining and her husband’s fiddling with the bones. “The situation’s different, and you know it. You twins were always pushing the boundaries, and I have never once had to worry about Winnie stepping out of line.”

  She beams at me. I usually live for these moments—but this time, I can’t even enjoy her praise, with the guilt of kissing Mat hanging over me.

  “I have complete faith in Winnie to conduct herself with decorum at all times.”

  Ah. Mama’s harping on the point. And now I know why.

  She’s not complimenting me. She’s warning me. About how I should act on this fake date. About how I must pretend to be on a date during this foray into the city—but not too much. And certainly not the way I “pretended” in the courtyard.

  “She is the epitome of what a good Thai girl should be,” Mama concludes. “Isn’t that right, Winnie?”

  All I can do is smile weakly.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “You can look now,” Kavya proclaims.

  I open my eyes, and the reflection in the mirror stops my breath. My best friend, genius that she is, has applied my makeup so that I still look like myself—but the very best version. My eyes sparkle; my lips shine. My hair is in its usual ponytail, but Kavya has curled the thick waves so that it cascades to my shoulders.

  I’m wearing, of course, the green dress. It’s Mat approved, and yet…

  “What if he changes his mind?” I ask. “About the dress. About me.”

  “Um, that’s not going to be a problem. The way he looked at you this week? I thought my brown lunch bag was going to burst into flames.”

  “What if I spill something on my dress?” I persist.

  “Honestly, Winnie? You probably will.” She tugs at my skirt so that it lays more smoothly. “But that’s not going to surprise anyone. Especially Mat.”

  I gnaw on my lip. “We might not have anything to talk about. There might be this awful, looming silence between us, and I’ll be so hard-pressed to fill it that I’ll start babbling about, I don’t know, the comfort and care of hermit crabs. And my hermit crabs died five years ago.”

  Kavya regards me through the mirror. “Didn’t you talk on the phone all week?”

  “Yes, but that’s part of the problem. Maybe we’ve run out of topics to discuss.” I wrap my arms around my waist. “Romance changes things, and going on an actual date creates all sorts of pressure. I’m not like the other girls he’s dated, you know? I don’t know how to flirt. I have no experience whatsoever.”

  “That’s why you’re going on this date,” she says gently. “Relationship skills take work, just like anything else. And who better to learn them with than someone as hot and funny as Mat?”

  I take a deep breath. She’s right. I just need to get out of my head. To not overthink it. To have fun. Piece of mo kaeng cake.

  The doorbell rings.

  “Wait!” Kavya shouts, even though I haven’t moved an inch. “Here.” She fastens an emerald pendant around my neck. It’s a simple necklace, one that a twelve-year-old boy once gave to a twelve-year-old girl. But the gemstone is pretty, and Sentimental Me wanted to wear it tonight, even if odds are he won’t remember it.

  “You’re ready,” she says when I still don’t budge.

  Thirty seconds later: “Don’t want to keep him too long. Your parents are probably interrogating him as we speak.”

  This rouses me. I’d better get downstairs before this date is completely ruined before it begins.

  …

  When I descend the stairs, my parents and Mat are sitting on the leather couches. Mat has a glass of water in one hand and balances a plate of peanut-sesame brittle on his knee. No doubt Mama shoved both at him the second he came through the door, never mind that we’re about to go to dinner.

  Mat’s telling a story about his father trying to order a vanilla cone at an ice-cream parlor. After several iterations of “What?” “Huh?” and “Can you repeat that?” Dr. Song switched his order to chocolate.

  Mama and Papa are both laughing so hard that they’re holding their stomachs. Because, you know, that’s better than crying. This is the kind of story that our parents and their immigrant friends love to tell, finding humor in the pain of their assimilation. I should know. Mat and I have spent hours crawling under the table during dinner parties, listening to them talk.

  “To this day, I still prefer chocolate,” Mat says, “because that’s all my dad ever ordered for me as a kid. Who knows what my favorite flavor would be if he’d ever figured out how to pronounce ‘vanilla’?”

  “He never told us this story.” Mama pats a tissue to the corners of her eyes.

  Mat grins. “Ask him next time.”

  “We will,” Papa says. “In fact, I’ll call him right now. Invite him to dinner. He’s by himself tonight, yes?”

  Mat nods. “He’d love that. He was just taking out a frozen pizza when I left.”

  So much for the interrogation.

  I forget, this is why Mama picked Mat for me to fake-date in the first place. Because they’ve known him since he was in diapers. Because he’s safe. Because Papa appreciates him, and Mama’s always had a soft spot for him.

  Better call him “Ugly,” I remember Mama advising Auntie Nit. This child is too pretty. With those big eyes and perfect lips, the demons will whisk him away for sure.

  I get to the bottom of the staircase, not that anyone notices. Nothing like a failed entrance to boost a girl’s confidence.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  They turn. An expression crosses Mat’s face, but it’s gone so quickly, I can’t decipher it.

  “Why, Winnie,” Mama says. “You look so pretty. Almost as pretty as your sisters.”

  I’d roll my eyes if the kites weren’t back in my stomach, this time the long-tailed pakpao that traditionally battles the chula.

  “Doesn’t she look nice, Mat?” Mama demands.

  “Not too nice, I hope,” Papa says, a note of warning in his voice.

  Mat doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure.” His smile could charm a snake back into its basket. “I mean, she does remind me of Dr. Pat,” he says, referring to Mama.

  She lets loose a peal of laughter, and the wrinkles in Papa’s forehead smooth out.

  “What an upstanding young man.” Papa slaps him on the back. “Any other boy, I’d worry that hormones would take the place of better judgment. But I trust you implicitly, Mat. I hope you know that. You have always treated Winnie with the utmost respect. I don’t expect that to change tonight.”

  “It won’t, Dr. Tech.”

  Smiling, they walk him to the door—and by extension, me, although no one’s bothered to give me a second g
lance. Mat raises his hands to wai my parents, but Mama hugs him instead.

  I push down my annoyance. So it’s okay for Mama to hug him but not me?

  I look up at Kavya, who’s watching from the second floor. You’ve got this, she mouths and flashes me a double thumbs-up. And then we’re out the door.

  Mat and I march down the sidewalk, stiffly and one foot apart. He stares straight ahead. He doesn’t utter a word to me, much less admire my appearance.

  Every step makes my spine a little straighter, my heart a little harder. Was I wrong? Was Kavya wrong? Is he completely indifferent to me? Will he treat me in this cool and civilized way for the rest of the date?

  Ack. I’ll never get through the night.

  I’m beginning to wonder if I should call off the whole thing when I get a look at the Jeep.

  He’s decorated his car. Bright-red lobster claws are fastened to the rearview mirrors, and the headlights share space with a pair of wooden mallets. Even a long, stretched-out bib hangs under the grille.

  “You hadn’t changed the decor in a while, so I thought I’d help you out,” he says. “Do you like it? I call this emotion ‘hungry.’”

  Both his tone and his expression are solemn, but my heart leaps just the same. I’ve been so caught up in our new relationship that I hadn’t given my art project a second thought. But he did. And his thoughtfulness settles right in the center of my chest.

  “I love it. Mataline’s never looked better.”

  He opens the passenger door for me and then rounds the car to climb into the driver’s seat. “Are your parents still watching?”

  I glance at the front porch, where they’re standing, smiles on their faces. Blissfully unaware that they’re sending their daughter on a date with a boy she can’t wait to kiss again.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Then I suppose this car can’t be considered private.” He turns, looking at me directly for the first time this evening.

  In an instant, the air comes alive, as though it’s simply been waiting for the moment that we’re alone. Goose bumps erupt on my skin, and I’m having a hard time drawing a breath in the swampy interior of the Jeep.

  “You look stunning,” he says.

  “As stunning as my mother?” I can’t resist teasing.

  He grins. “I only said that because they don’t want to know how I really feel.”

  Ten minutes of going unnoticed makes me bold. “And how’s that?”

  Heat flashes across his eyes. “I’ll be happy to show you later.”

  I swallow hard. “Mat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Start the car. They’re going to wonder why we haven’t left.”

  He starts the car.

  …

  We begin our trip, falling into a comfortable silence. I watch his hands for a while as they deftly pull up the directions on his phone and maneuver the steering wheel. His fingers are so long. So elegant. And yet, even as I’m enjoying the view, something’s not sitting quite right with me.

  I don’t figure out what it is until we get on the highway. “I didn’t realize you and Mama were so chummy.”

  His forehead creases. “Well, yeah. I’ve known her since I was a kid. And—I hope you don’t mind my saying this—but since my own mom took off, she’s been like a mother to me.”

  “I don’t mind. But that doesn’t make sense. You’ve barely seen her in the last four years.”

  “That’s not quite true.” He slides a glance at me. Focuses back on the road. And then looks my way again. “She used to bring us meals, once or twice a week, in those early years after my mom left. Looking back, I think she always knew the truth. At any rate, we talked a lot, your mom and I. She helped me through my anger and hurt.” Another sideways glance. “I always wondered if that made you resent me more. That maybe you didn’t like how much time she spent with me.”

  I fall back against my seat, floored. I had no clue. My parents and the Songsomboons have always been close. That’s why Mat and I spent so much time together when we were little. But I assumed that Mama’s relationship with Mat faded when mine did.

  I’m not mad, though. Pretty much the opposite. What kind of a selfish, narrow-minded person would I be to begrudge a grieving boy this small amount of comfort?

  I reach over and pick up his hand. It’s the first time we’ve touched since the courtyard. There’s a spark, of course. I don’t think I could touch Mat and be completely ember-free. But more than the fire, there’s also the warmth and refuge of friendship.

  “I’m glad she could be there for you when I couldn’t.”

  “I would’ve preferred you,” he says, squeezing my hand back.

  “You have me now,” I say simply, and there’s no shyness, no uncertainty.

  It’s funny. The Mat with the deep eyes and the biceps is so new, so exciting, that sometimes I forget he’s the same Mat I’ve known all my life. My best friend for more than a decade. The boy whom I declared I was going to marry when I was six years old, not because he was a good kisser but because even then, I could see straight into his heart. I loved that boy. I’m not sure I ever stopped.

  He brings our interlocked hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “I wish I wasn’t driving.”

  I narrow my eyes. “And if you weren’t, we’d be doing exactly what we’re doing right now.”

  “I can always hope.” He grins.

  But I’m not ready to let go of the subject. “It’s weird, you know? To think about you and Mama plotting behind my back. It’s like, you were conspiring with her. She discussed the dates with you; for all I know, she even consulted you. I only found out about each date at the last minute.”

  “I get why that would feel strange.” He’s quiet for a minute. Outside, the guardrails, the oversize highway signs, and the rolling hills whiz by. “But I promise, it wasn’t an ‘us versus you’ situation. She just feels comfortable with me, and your dad never wanted to be involved in the planning. So she talked to me.”

  I turn this over in my mind. “How does she think you feel about me?”

  “Well, I make fun of you. A lot.” He shoots me a teasing glance. “How you’re always ripping your tights. How you can’t wrap an egg roll to save your life. How you tried to impress the new guy by pouring jalapeño vinegar on your shirt.”

  “You told her that?” My face burns. “No wonder she thinks I’m a dating disaster.”

  He smirks. “She also thinks I’m a dating phenom.”

  “Don’t tell me you gave her a list of all the girls you’ve ever kissed,” I say dryly.

  “Nah. That would take too long.” He laughs, and I smack him across the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “You deserve it,” I grumble.

  His eyes are still smiling, but he arranges his mouth into a suitably solemn expression. “The real reason she trusts me is because I told her that I would never let anyone hurt you.” He takes his eyes off the road and gives me a brief, searing glance. “Least of all me.”

  Chapter Thirty

  My five-year-old niece has dubbed Lowcountry, “My favorite place outside of Disney World!” And I couldn’t agree more.

  Red-and-white-checked tablecloths cover long communal tables, and red stools snuggle up to the wooden bar. A handwritten menu is painted on the dark-brown columns, while fairy lights and greenery drape across the ceiling. The center of the room is dominated by a long, metal trough sink, an encouragement to get your hands dirty. But the food, of course, is the main event.

  Patrons dig into the seafood boil, spilling over with succulent lobster tails, king crab legs, shrimp, mussels, even crawfish. A cloud of steam bursts in their faces when they cut into the plastic bags, whetting their appetites. Paper food trays boast heaping sides of jalapeño corn bread and red curry mac-n-cheese, crab hush puppies and garlic noodles. The
handful of people who have already moved on to dessert bite into deep-fried Oreos—and moan.

  Mat’s mouth drops as soon as we walk inside, as much from the garlic-and-butter scent as the lush spread on each table.

  I grin. “You’ll be dreaming about the Everythang sauce for days.”

  “Good.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I could use something new to dream about. My recurring dream was getting a little…”

  “Boring?” I demand.

  “I was going to say obsessive,” he says, his eyes dancing. “But boring works, too.”

  I slap him playfully, and he catches my hand and pulls me against his chest. My breath gets clogged in my throat. He might be making these comments just to give me an excuse to touch him. If he is, I’m not complaining.

  “This restaurant isn’t exactly private,” I warn.

  “Nobody knows us here,” he says, the height of reason. “So it might as well be.”

  There’s probably something wrong with his logic. I just don’t want to figure out what.

  When I check in at the front, however, I realize that his premise is not fully correct. People do know us here. As soon as I say my name, the hostess’s eyes light up. “Oh! Your uncle’s at our second location tonight. But he left strict instructions to treat you like VIPs.”

  Mat and I exchange a look and follow her through the restaurant, past all the communal tables, to a private corner booth. It even has a circular raised wall that stretches most of the way around the table.

  This table’s a mistake. It’s got to be. No way would Mama—and by extension, my uncle—have approved of this VIP table, hidden from the other patrons’ eyes.

  “Actually, I’m not sure—”

  Mat cuts me off. “This is perfect, thank you.”

  I stare at him, and he smiles back angelically. Which is just comical. I may be feeling a little (okay, a lot) more favorably toward him, but that doesn’t mean he won’t always have more in common with the devil.

  The hostess holds out white plastic bibs, almost apologetically. “We offer these to all our customers. It’s a shame to cover such a pretty dress.”